Honor and Pride
by Tristripe
Summary: AU.Taken to the Fire Nation and in the bed of the Firelord, Sokka waits for the moment to make his mark in the war. He finds a possible ally in Zuko, who obsessed with Sokka, might be the key to topple the Fire Nation and end the war.
1. Prologue:  When the Fire Nation Came

A/N: The story is meant to be part of the Avatar Big Bang (which I am shamed to admit I completely failed it. Reached the word count goal, but not the completed work goal). It was inspired my numerous works of genius such as the anime 'Mirage of Blaze', and the manga 'Sakura Gari'. But really, I heard the song 'Cold (But I'm Still Here)' by Evan's Blue and just had to write a SOMETHING when I looked up the lyrics.

Acknowledgements: B-chan, the beta who pushes and questions and demands the best! Thank you so, so much!

CHAPTER WARNING: Dark themes.

With that warning, read and enjoy!

_**HONOR AND PRIDE**_

**Prologue:** _When the Fire Nation Came…_

Even if she tried, Katara could never recall how many times the Fire Nation came to her village. The snow covered in soot and ash almost always preceded their arrival, sometimes with enough time to make rally up their defenses and hide their goods, other times not so much. The brutality of the attacks varied though, depending on the mission objective of the Fire Nation. Most of the time they came to destroy and pillage, decimating the once flourishing village to nothing but mounds of ice and piles of furs and leathers where once stood large homes. They took everything with them, food, clothes, jewelry, and pottery, leaving the village destitute and scrambling to feed itself. However, the loss of their village goods was nothing compared to when someone was killed or taken away by the Fire Nation soldiers. The dead left behind were the fortunate ones, for they could be laid to rest in the land they had been born into, by the hands of their loved ones. No one who was taken away ever made it back, their fates a heavy burden that weighed the hearts of those who knew and loved them, for there wasn't even a body to bury and mourn.

Katara grew up with those harsh lessons. To be a waterbender meant to be killed or taken away when the Fire Nation came. She had to stay hidden, to stay quiet and obedient. _No matter what, do not fight back_, her mother whispered to her these words night after night. Her father held her close and whispered the same words into her hair. Her grandmother held her gaze, and aged eyes that had seen loved ones taken repeated the warning. Over, and over, without realizing it, she too started to repeat the words of her elders: _No matter what, do not fight back. To waterbend meant to be taken away. No matter what, do not fight back. Don't be taken away._

True to their words, when the Fire Nation came at the rumor of a waterbender in the village, they took her mother; murdered her in the very hut that Katara had been born in. Murdered, because they had heard word of a living waterbender and to protect her, her mother played the part. Hakoda could not forgive himself for the loss of his wife, his complete failure in protecting his family. Time did not ease his pain or rage, and a few years after Kya's death, her chieftain father gathered his warriors and left to make their mark on the war. To fight. For revenge.

Yet, his final words to her before his departure were the very same warning that he had given her since she was a babe. "No matter what, Katara," he spoke into her hair, and she could almost hear the tears in his voice. "No matter what, do not fight back. Never let them know you are a waterbender."

Then he was gone, sailing away into the black night of the South Pole.

Sokka stood beside her that night, watching with the rest of the villagers as the warriors disappeared. One hand held a lantern aloft, and the other wrapped warmly around her. Sokka's arms were always warm, and she had pressed against him for comfort. She knew he wanted to go, and if there was a chance he would swim through the icy waters to join them, but like her he had been left behind, for a child had no place in a war.

She was thinking this when suddenly she heard him whisper, "Don't worry, Katara, I'm not going to let them take you."

When everyone had retired, Sokka was climbing into his sleeping pallet with its layers of animals furs to when Katara had crawled in beside him, clinging to the front of his sleeping shirt. "Just for tonight," she said, unable to lift her head to look into her brother's eyes.

"You can bed down with Gran-Gran," he said to her, but his hand was on the back of her head, holding her close just as she could not let him go.

She shook her head. "It isn't the same," she kept her voice quiet, just in case their grandmother was lurking just outside the tent flaps. "Just for tonight, Sokka," she pleaded, "just tonight."

She felt his thin chest rise and fall against her cheek, and then he laid back down, keeping his hand on her head and letting his chest serve as a pillow for her. Katara felt the sting of tears in her eyes, so she shut them tight, and clenched her jaw.

Sokka must have sensed her distress, for his voice was strong and sure when he repeated what he had said earlier that evening, "Don't worry, Katara, I'll won't let anything happen to you."

Stupid, and foolish. They all were; every last one of them. Katara had to force herself not to scream into his face, to tell her brother what she really thought, and how she really felt. If the Fire Nation wanted her so badly they could take her, rip her to shreds, leave her in pieces for surely that pain was nothing to the ice that was encasing her heart every time she closed her eyes and remembered mother's face, and now every time she saw the blue sails fading into the night. Why was everyone else allowed to fight and sacrifice themselves except her? Because she was the last waterbender of the South Pole? Because she was the chieftain's daughter? Because she was the last of the shattered Water Tribe's pride?

_Why?_

"I'm thinking of building a watch tower," Sokka was talking, oblivious to her dark thoughts. "Yeah, something high enough so I can spot the Fire Nation ships before they reach us. We won't be caught by surprise again if we have that. And tunnels! We've gotta have some kind of tunnel system…"

Blinking, Katara raised her head from her brother's chest, and stared into Sokka's bright blue eyes. They were alight with possibilities and dreams, something magical like the water and ice she managed to manipulate and bend. Beautiful and alive, unbreakable. Sokka's face was pulled into a huge smile, brave, his teeth showing, and cheeks flushed in excitement over his own words and imaginings.

Mother killed. Father gone to war. Abandoned with the women and children, a child himself, but Sokka was still fighting. In his own way, fighting his war.

Katara stared, memorizing, and let his image slowly warm her skin, and slowly melt the ice that froze her within.

And the next day, Sokka started mapping the village, and strategized on the position of his watchtower. The women shook their heads at him; Gran-Gran pulled him away from his self-proclaimed mission by the ear to help with the chores. "Get your head out of the clouds," she lectured him, and he nodded his head, pouted and did everything that was asked of him. Then the next morning again, he worked on his watchtower until pulled away. It became a habit for Sokka to rise earlier than anyone in the village to work on the 'village's defenses'. Soon, a small little tower was crafted, and then it had to be stocked by weapons, even though the only one who knew how to use one was him.

"But we have to be ready," he argued with Gran-Gran one morning. "The kids are going to grow big enough for me to teach them, Gran-Gran. We can't just roll over and let the Fire Nation do what they want with us. We've got to defend ourselves!"

"Defend what, Sokka?" Their grandmother's voice was sharp and severe. "Fight for what? Our tents? Our land? What do we have to defend here?"

"Everything!" Sokka's voice was so young compared to Gran-Gran's, so inexperienced and lost. "I won't let them take anyone else! I won't let them kill anyone else! I'll protect everyone."

Gran-Gran laughed, a low tortured sound that Katara wanted to cover her ears to, "You? You're just a child Sokka. What will you do when a Fire Nation ship comes and destroys that little castle you've built? What will you do when you come face-to-face with a firebender whose intent is to burn you alive?"

"I'll fight them! Just 'cause they can firebend doesn't mean they are invincible! We can set traps with the tunnel system I've been thinking about, we can…"

"And anger them more? Draw attention to ourselves? Think Sokka!" Gran-Gran's gloved hand shot forward and grabbed Sokka by the chin, bringing him close. He was of equal height to her, but somehow she seemed to tower over him. "You plan to get yourself and everyone else killed with these foolish ideas of yours. When the Fire Nation comes we will do nothing, because we have nothing. As long as your sister does not waterbend they will have no reason to attack us with the intent to kill. However, if we fight then they will punish, and child you have not seen what the Fire Nation is capable of when they want to punish us. It's not only your life, or the life of your sister that hangs in the balance, Sokka."

Sokka's face crumbled at her words, yet still when he opened his mouth, he said "But Gran-Gran…I just can't stand and do nothing."

Angrily, their grandmother shoved him away with such force that he stumbled and fell back into the snowy ground. "Stubborn, foolish boy," she said, fustrated as she turned away from him. "Do what you want if you don't want to listen. But don't expect me to cry for you when I'm forced to bury your remains after the Fire Nation soldiers are done with you."

Her voice was steel, and not a note wavered, but Sokka did not see the expression on her face as she stomped away. No, Katara saw it, clear and sorrowful, the grief in her grandmother's eyes. Gran-Gran was already crying, dry tears that no one could see nor touch. She had shed every last one so long ago, her tear-ducts dry and hollow.

As the months passed by Sokka and her grandmother argued often, yet every night he ate his fill of the food Gran-Gran made and hugged her tight and boasted about his height before going to sleep. Another lesson they had learned: to never go to bed with harsh words, for you never knew who would still be there come morning.

"He's like your father," Gran-Gran said one day as the two of them sat sewing some extra parkas. Both Sokka and Katara were outgrowing their old ones, and Gran-Gran's hands and fingers were getting stiffer with age, and Katara was never one to let a task go unchallenged. She was horrible at it, but one day she would master it.

Katara paused at her work and looked at the aged woman.

"There is no doubt about it, Hakoda is a brilliant man. The perfect chieftain for our people." Gran-Gran did not pause in her work as she spoke, her thick dark fingers maneuvering the needle and thread through the skinned furs with sharp precision. "But was idealistic, a dreamer, his head and mind somewhere that isn't in the here and now. Worse, he never feared the Fire Nation, despite all that they had done to us. Never cared who was listening when he spoke, and didn't think thoroughly before he acted."

"That's definitely like Sokka," chuckled Katara.

Gran-Gran snorted, and used her teeth to cut a piece her thread. Katara looked back at her work, but her head shot up at her grandmother's next words:

"Kya's death nearly ruined him," the words were low, and sad, the pain of outliving her own daughter weighing every syllable as the woman continued to speak. "She was his everything, and he is broken without her. I thought for sure that one night he'd walk out into a snowstorm and let himself die out in the wilderness. "

"Gran-Gran…" she did not know how to respond to this, trying not to think about those cold days after her mother's death, her father's broad back hunched, head down in defeat.

Gran-Gran shook her head, and then looked up, holding her gaze, "Your father is doing a great thing, Katara, no doubt about it. But he hasn't learned yet the true power of the Fire Nation…he doesn't understand their ruthlessness. Hakoda is a proud man, and will not hide his identity when he fights. The Fire Nation will notice him, and in turn notice us. It's not a matter of if, but _when_ they will come back.

"Watch Katara, the Fire Nation will return, and your brother, just like his father, won't stand idle. He'll let them know that he's here, and that he does not fear them. And he will be punished for it."

Katara understood what her grandmother was saying, trying to teach her, but despite those words, Katara was also the daughter of Hakoda, and she too could not let herself stay idle. Whenever she found a moment to herself she practiced what she could of waterbending, feeling the water flow around her, trying to manipulate it and bend it to her will. Her attempts were frustrating, she found little control in the water; it ebbed and flowed as it willed with no heed to her desires. The only time it seemed to react according to her was when she lost her temper, and only then would she truly feel like a true waterbender…if one with no control.

"You're wasting your time, you know," Sokka had the audacity to tell her as he sat sharpening a spearhead one morning. He was going to hunt some meat for the village, and was not happy with the dullness of the spearhead he was to use. "I mean, what good is your magic water anyway? It's not going to get food into the village, it's not going to change the temperature, nor is it going to help when the Fire Nation soldiers come. You might as well forget that you're a bender. Just be a regular girl and do girl stuff with the rest of the women."

Infuriated, Katara had to grip at her furred coat to keep herself from going for Sokka's warrior's tail. "Can you forget that you're a man?" she asked bitingly. "Or that you're a warrior?"

"Hey," he defended, "at least what I'm doing is for the good of the village!"

"For the good of the village, or to feed your own ego, Sokka?" Below the belt, but Sokka had hit first.

He stood up, gripping the spear angrily, "What has your waterbending ever accomplished? It's not like you even know what you're doing! What are you going to try to do when the Fire Nation comes, huh? Wave your hands, throw a tantrum and hope that the water does what you want?"

"As if your watchtower is going to accomplish anything! It's not going to change anything in the long run, so you're just wasting your time with all your stupid plans and stupid building and stupid warrior practice!"

The end result was always the same, with the two of them at each other's throats until Katara lost her temper and the water responded violently in her defense. Sokka always ended up either buried in snow or drenched, and his dislike for her 'magic water' grew. Katara knew if her father was still present he would never let Sokka insult her waterbending. But he wasn't, nor would he be coming back anytime soon, if ever. Hakoda had made his choice. So what if only his young son was left to defend the remains of the village. Sokka was a child, just like her. If the Fire Nation did come, who would defend _him_? Just like Gran-Gran said, Sokka would catch their attention and there would be no one to stop them.

As the months dragged on Katara found herself thinking of her father's absence more and more, until one day she caught glimpse of her brother sitting alone in their tent, carefully fingering his boomerang. Hakoda have given it to him before leaving, and every day Sokka practiced throwing and catching it. Every day he lived with the hope to see their father again, to make him proud. Watching Sokka lovingly caress the weapon suddenly made her stomach turn, made her head fuzzy and she was forced to look away for fear of how she would act.

Stupid Sokka did not realize he had been abandoned. All of them. The great Southern Water Tribe chieftain had abandoned his village, abandoned his family.

_Why?_

The village soldiered on, and as the little toddlers grew Sokka prematurely began trying to train them in the art of war and battle. To his great frustration, he could not teach a single one to hold a spear properly; he couldn't even get them to stay silent through a single one of his instructions. Still so young, but Sokka continued with the single minded stubbornness of a polar bear trekking through a snow storm.

Of all the children in the village, Sokka and Katara were the eldest. Third had been Mikka, a girl less than a year younger than Katara. An orphan; her father had been a waterbender, taken before she was born. There were rumors that her mother, a sensitive woman named My, had tried to stop her pregnancy by taking poisonous herbs. Then the night Mikka had been born, My wandered into the wilderness and frozen to death. Whatever the reason, Mikka was slow, never seeming to mature beyond young childhood. She had fits like a little toddler, did not speak, and laughed when there was no time for laughter. The young children did not mind her, for they loved how Mikka never hesitated in lifting them high and throwing them into soft snow mounds.

It was Katara that Mikka had admired the most. She emulated her in the style of dress, the color of beads in her hair, and the single braid of her hair. She smiled the most when Katara was with her, giggling when the older girl gave her the attention she craved, and Katara gladly gave it as often as she could. However, Katara noticed that after her father left, she lost her temper with the girl, Mikka's shadowing tiresome and suffocating. Even the awe the other girl showed to the simplest of waterbending made Katara's stomach grow cold with a rage. If Mikka could only understand how amateur and inadequate her bending really was – she would not look at Katara with such worshipful eyes.

Yet there was Mikka, following her footsteps in the snow, clapping her hands as water was bent out of her drinking cup, Mikka laughing, crying, and expressing her desires and hates with open abandonment.

One night, a year after the warrior's departure, no one could ever get her to say why, Mikka wandered out in the middle of a storm. The village feared her dead like her mother, but she returned, nearly blue and extremely ill. Within a day she developed a horrible hacking cough that seemed to shake her whole body. She did not cry; merely lay whimpering as her body burned with fever. By the fourth day she succumbed and was gone.

Gran-Gran and the elder women cleansed her body, and dressed her in an elegant blue dress. Her hair was combed and braided in two tails that rested over her shoulders, and then she was placed in a small canoe to be later sent adrift in the water.

It was the day of mourning; all the villagers took turns leaving small gifts to accompany Mikka on her final journey into the sea. Katara had carved a little pendant very much like hers and tied it around the dead girl's neck. Sokka had helped her pick the stone, knowing which one would be the best to carve into.

Sokka left the women to mourn after depositing his own gift – a small ball made of seal skin - and climbed into his watchtower. He was not in there long before he came sprinting out, spear in hand and practically tumbling over his own feet in his haste.

"Fire Nation! The Fire Nation is here!" He shouted his voice loud and carrying across the small village.

The mothers' immediately went looking for their little ones, calling their names out in panic and ushering them into the tents. One woman began to let out a terrified wail, and two others harshly told her to keep silent. Everyone knew what to do without being guided, quickly going to their homes to collect valuables to bury and hide. Katara ran to their tent, quickly collecting pottery and the clothes she and her Gran-Gran had worked hard to make for when the cold became harsh. She was bundling these in a bag when she heard Sokka come in behind her.

"They're coming for you," he said, his voice soft.

Katara felt her whole body stiffen, the hairs on her neck coming to stand on end as if Sokka had dumped ice in her coat. She swallowed hard, "You don't know that."

He came closer, his snow caked boots stepping into the polar seal hide that separated them from the ice ground. "There's no one else here that's worth them coming back for. There's nothing here that they could want."

"No one knows what I am!" she snarled, shoving the bundle away and turning to glare up at her brother angrily. "There is no way they can know that I'm a -" She nearly bit her tongue when Sokka bent down and grabbed her arm, yanking her up harshly.

"Listen," her brother's eyes were the same shade of blue as hers, yet whenever she looked at her reflection in the water, her eyes lacked the clarity and passion that she always saw shimmering in her brother. Sokka shook her, "They were coming for you when they killed mom, Katara. If they knew about you then, then there is a good chance they know about you now."

There, again, deep in her stomach it coiled and cut into her, that last moment when she looked at her mother on her knees before the Fire Nation soldier. The sails of her father's ship disappearing into the night. The despair in her grandmother's dry eyes. Her brother's back as he caressed his most cherished weapon. Cold, cold, burning her insides and trying to bleed out of her.

Katara tried to yank herself away, her voice loud when she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

Sokka turned and pulled her behind him, nearly charging out of the tent. Katara stumbled with an angry yell, but he jerked her onward. He did not stop when Gran-Gran demanded to know where they were going, nor when Katara furiously clawed at his hand, wanting him to just _stop_. He dragged her to the outskirts of the small village, where a small igloo that housed the village tools stood. He pushed her in, crowding behind her. She finally fell to her knees, and he too came down, hands now on both her shoulders, squeezing hard.

Trembling.

"_Listen_," Sokka was trembling, she hear it in his voice, felt it with every pore of her skin beneath the layers of fur. Despite this he whispered, "I know it's crazy, but I've been working on the tunnels. Barely started, really, but got one done. It goes up to that hill that looks over the ocean and the village, next to the abandoned Fire Nation ship."

Katara blinked, barely following him. "Where we used to go penguin sledding?"

"Yeah, that's the one," he laughed, hushed, like those times when they stayed up and whispered stories to each other instead of sleeping. He let his hands fall from her shoulders, and he turned to the side where a large wooden crate filled with hammers sat. Using his shoulder he shoved it out of the way, and Katara could not help but gape. A small hole, narrow enough for one person to fit through at a time had been dug right underneath the crate, carefully hidden and kept secret.

She was shaking her head before she could even form any words. "No," she shifted away from the dark hole, "No, Sokka, _NO_!"

Once again she was in her brother's hold, being manhandled against her will – always against her will – so that she was facing the cool depths of her brother's hard work. She felt a roaring in her ears, her eyes hot and burning, but her stomach was so cold. "Just crawl to the other end," he was telling her. "That's all you need to do. Stop fighting me, stop arguing, and just crawl to the other end. There's nothing to be afraid of, as long as you are gone there's nothing for them to take."

Nothing to take. Nothing to lose. She was pushed head first into the darkness, the tunnel so narrow she was unable to look back at her brother. "Sokka…" her voice sobbed against her will.

"Keep going," his voice jolted her. Strong and assuring. There was no doubt in her brother's voice. There was never doubt. "Don't stop until you get to the other end!"

Taking halting breaths, she brought one elbow in front of the other, digging her knees and feet into the ice. It was dark, black, and she shut her eyes, pushing onward. She could smell the water in its solid form; she could taste it on her tongue as she breathed it in and out. Her muscles were hot and sweaty underneath the parka, and she crawled onward in the darkness, one arm over the other, one knee before the next, pushing, pulling, seeming to crawl upwards to the place her brother spoke of.

She felt the daylight before she saw it through her closed eyes. Something warm gently caressing her chilled cheeks.

The ice encased Fire Nation ship was the first thing she saw through the opening of Sokka's tunnel. It lay stranded, like a giant whale forever pierced by a hunter's harpoon, old, black and letting out hollowed moans in the air. Katara pulled herself out of the tunnel, pushing herself to her knees as she dazedly stared at the massive machine that was used to terrorize her people. How many like it had come to this icy shore? How many lay sunken under the water and ice? How many over the last hundred years had left carrying away all the waterbenders in the South Pole? Did they reach their destination? Was there revolt and all went down with the ship in the vast waters of the ocean?

Was it her fate to one day be taken away in one of those monstrosities?

Katara turned away from the nauseating site, and started walking up a small snowy hill to look down at the village. She went down to her hands and knees, staying hidden as she peaked over the edge, able to see a clear view of the village and beyond. The Fire Nation ship was just as big as the one at her back, thick black smoke came from large pipes at its helm. She could see men in red and black armor on the metal deck, some armed with large spears. The front of the ship had hit the shore hard, breaking hard ice, large cracks reached so far as the middle of the village where Katara could see the villagers had been gathered to the middle.

Gran-Gran stood at the front of the huddling women and children, Sokka beside her with a spear in one hand and boomerang in the other. Fire Nation soldiers, armed with weapons and their even more lethal fists surrounded everyone. One soldier with a thick black topknot on his helmet seemed to be speaking to Gran-Gran. Whether threats of inquiries Katara could not hear nor tell what. This went on for awhile, then the leader made a gesture and two broke away from the circle. Wherever they were going Sokka was not going to allow them full reign of the village, and he leapt from Gran-Gran's side after them. Within seconds, Katara was barely able to see how, Sokka was pinned by another soldier. Katara felt herself jerked upward then she froze.

_No. Listen._

Swallowing down rising bile, she let herself sink low, never taking her eyes off the scene below.

The two soldiers returned, but between them they carried the small mourners raft that housed Mikka. They dropped it before their leader, who threw the hood open and stared at the Water Tribe girl's corpse. He turned away, and made a motion with his hand, and all the soldiers stepped back.

For a second, Katara let herself sigh, but then she saw the soldier holding Sokka pull her brother to his feet and pull him towards the ship. A shrill wail rose from the women, and Gran-Gran stumbled forward, grabbing at the arm of leader of the soldiers, going to her knees. Begging. She was harshly shaken off, but she would not let him go, wrapping her arms around his leg. Other women took snow into their hands and threw them at the soldiers, screaming, crying. One brave child ran forward towards Sokka, reaching for him with small hands.

_Don't, Don't, DON'T._

She could not hear them, but their cries rang in her ears, piercing her. So loud their voices reverberated in the snow walls, traveled into the water so high so strong she could feel the echoes in her blood.

Fire then rose, silencing all the cries, all the pride. Everyone lay flattened on the ground, arms around each other as if their flesh could protect those beneath them.

Katara stood.

The Fire Nation soldiers hastily withdrew with Sokka struggling between three soldiers as the dragged him into the ship. Katara took a step forward, opened her mouth to scream out, anything, anything…then impossibly, for a moment, so brief that it could be her imagination…Sokka looked over his shoulder. Fearless, dauntless, Sokka stared right at her.

_I will NEVER let them take you._

So Katara stayed with her feet unmoving as the metal door to the ship was shut, the soldiers gone. Her brother with them. The women started to stand, rushing towards the black machine as it started to pull away from shore. They were wailing. Wailing on their knees, wailing as they stood, wailing as they held each other. Hands covering their faces.

She turned her eyes away from their grief, her eyes locking on the Fire Nation ship in front of her, taking away her brother. Whenever they left they always took away. That was the fate of the Water Tribe; the stranded Fire Nation ship behind her attested to it. The Fire Nation would always be there, would always steal away from her those she loved. Would continue to pick at her till there was nothing left.

_WHY?_

Was it hate, she wondered as her brother disappeared into the horizon. Was it fear, arrogance, or mere inability to feel loss that drove the Fire Nation to steal so much, so selfishly. Was it true that they were so powerful that no one could defeat them? Not the legendary Air Nomads who had been the first in the Fire Nation's genocide. Not the proud Water Tribe. Not the stubborn Earthbenders of the Earth Kingdom. Was it fate, preordained that the Fire Nation would reign supreme over the world?

Were they fighting a lost war?

The sun sank into the ocean, casting a horrible red light across the sky. Katara still stood, staring at the water. Why had she been born a waterbender if her powers were so useless, if it caused so much pain? Why did she have to be the one to survive when everyone died or was taken away? Why was she the only one not allowed to fight, when everyone else fought to their very last breaths?

Katara fell to her knees, snow and ice erupted around her, a loud explosion consuming her as she gasped out a breath, voiceless, helpless, powerless. Her hands came up and slammed down, and she heard the ice crack around her, breaking apart. She did not look, keeping her eyes trained at the water, the ocean, the vastness that Sokka had disappeared into. Her heart pounded, loud, fast. She could hear the snow in the wind, the black clouds in the sky above, the bright cold moon beginning to glow blue at her back.

Sokka liked to stare up into the night sky. He had given different stars names, and mapped them out and drew them for Katara to see. Father had taught him how to read them so he would never get lost, and Sokka had memorized them all. Katara did not have such a mind, and relied on the maps, but they were easier to remember by the stories her brother told for each group. But most of all, Sokka loved the moon.

"Wherever you go, it's always the same moon. The people of the Earth Kingdom and our sister tribe at the North Pole are all seeing the same moon we are," he had said once, staring up loving at the illuminating object above, the moon's silver glow reflecting in his bright eyes.

Katara felt her pulse in her blood, the water in her very living tissues. Alive, flowing. Katara raised her harms up, her gloves falling without concern. She stared forward, never looking away from the black ocean. She could feel it moving in her, so powerful. She could feel the solidness of it beneath her feet. She could feel the touch of the moon behind her.

So bright, like the moon, like the ocean, her brother's eyes.

Her vision blurred, and bitter tears finally came out of her frozen heart. They slid down her cheeks and off her chin to join in the morning of the snow of ice. Wretched sobs finally shaking through her rigid body, weak, fragile thing that she was. Voiceless, pitiless, she could not even beg…

_Bring him back, bring him BACK!_

She would never forgive them. The Fire Nation and their ruthlessness. She would make them pay dearly for everything they had done. Her fingers spread even as her wrists bent, and she could see them, the Fire Nation in a single soldier from long ago, she could hear his poisonous heart beating just as his toxic blood seemed to call to her, red, flowing, just like the ocean.

She would bend them all, one by one, bend them till they had nothing left. It was in her blood, this power, and she would train, masterless, train until she could slice through their fire and pierce them through their metal armor. She would train until she could drown them and watch their fire try to save them. She would train until she was a master, until she played them like a puppets they were.

The moon was so bright, and Katara breathed her vow, moist from her breath into the air.

A vow to the moon, from its forever separated lover in the water below.

A vow to Sokka; her brother taken so far, far away.

She would avenge them all. Without pity, without mercy for anyone who tried to get in her way. She would strike without hesitation. Without doubt. The pride of thousands slaughtered waterbenders and Water Trine warriors lay within her, and she would heed their cries.

Till the moment she would be taken down, Katara would fight.


	2. Chapter One: Far Away From Home…

A/N: I wrote and completed this chapter months ago. Finished writing chapter 2, and my beta then pointed out an inconsistency that totally threw me back and I had to go back to this chapter and pick at it.

Acknowledgements: B-chan the beta.

CHAPTER WARNING: Nothing really. I would give this chapter a rating of PG. At most PG-13 for dark themes.

**HONOR AND PRIDE**  
_**Chapter One :**__ Far Away From Home…_

He could see her standing atop the hill, long dark hair unbound and wild in the wind. He could hear her voice, a soundless cry that he knew she would scream out if she could, but never did. Her blue eyes a raging storm, so angry with the world she had been born in, helpless to change, helpless to help, helpless to even call out.

_Don't go,_ she begged him. _Don't leave me alone._

It was the same image that played over and over whenever Sokka closed his eyes. The figure of his sister haunted him whenever he tried to rest, tried to find any type of peace. The hellish apparition of Katara lived and breathed in his waking hours, and tormented his dreams when he slept. His unconscious would not let him have respite. The crime that he committed to save his sister was the same that hurt her, and for that he could not forgive himself.

The Fire Nation ship that had taken him was dark and cold. The metal that surrounded him held no warmth, or even the slightest bit of compassion. Soldiers had stripped him of all his clothes except for a small scrap cloth that hung from his thin hips. His hands were forced into manacles, his arms pulled wide above his head, while a chain ring that was bolted to the floor was sealed around his neck, forcing him on his knees so that he was unable to look up without great strain. That first hellish day had been agony as he slowly felt the blood drain from his hands, his knees bruising from the hard floor, every part of him shivering from the frigid cold as he hung near nude and alone.

The Fire Nation soldiers did not abuse with violence, they chose another way to torture him. Like a forgotten a fish he hung in place, unable to move, unable to lift his head to look towards the door of his prison. No one came when he called to relieve himself, and he was left shamed in his own feces and urine when hours dragged by and he could not contain his bladder and bowels. No one came when he begged to be let down as his hands swelled and started to send shooting pain down his arms, nor when the pain turned to horrible numbness. When he felt knees became useless from kneeling on the hard metal floor, Sokka realized that was the way the Fire Nation wanted him. Shamed, weak, and in pain.

Perhaps (Sokka was never sure) once a day a silent soldier came into his lonely chamber and doused him with frigid water as a way to wash the filth from his soiled legs. Then as he spluttered and shivered in cold, his hair would be yanked back and some type of flavorless gruel forced down his throat. The masked soldier never stayed long enough to wait till Sokka stopped choking. Never said a word, never touched him longer than necessary.

That was the most he saw of them. That was way they wanted him - devoid of any unnecessary human contact.

Alone, without even the sounds of voices near, he could not focus on anything but the last memory of Katara. She would never forget this, he knew, and for that never forgive. She was like that, holding grudges, overly emotional, irrationally angry. Katara would never forgive him for his sacrifice, even if it saved her life. The thought of her in his place, hung like an animal about to be slaughtered, alone, and not even able to bend the water she loved…No. It was better this way. There was no other way. Just as she would not forgive him for what he did, he would never forgive himself if he had let her be taken.

Yet…

_Don't leave me alone._

His cell had no windows, and he could not tell night from day. It was terrifying, the endless silence and dark. Almost laughable, really. Here he was trying to be a great warrior, yet the quiet made him shake in fear. There were no sounds of the women outside the tent, the crackling of the fire in the middle of the village, Katara's breaths as she went about her business, Gran-Gran's old voice as she hummed a tune while she sewed.

And again, he shut his eyes. Katara stood, her mouth open and trying to tell him...

Sokka knew he cried when he thought of home. The tears were ice on his chilled cheeks, the warm memories of his family made the pain in his body like a minor ache. His tears shamed him. This was all by his hand; he had chosen this for himself, for Katara, for the village. His tears were that of a cowardly child, not the son of the warrior chief Hakoda, not of a water tribe warrior. Yet still, he wanted to go home, wanted to be enveloped in the warmth of his family, wanted to beg for forgiveness from Gran-Gran for all those times they argued, wanted to hug Katara and promise her that he would never, ever leave her again.

So he spoke to them, his voice the only sound that could reach his ears, a balm for his numb body and injured core. The soldiers were trying to drive him mad, he told his family, but he would not give into them or their torture. They would not break him. He was an idea guy, and once he got the chance he would escape and sink the wretched ship.

Katara's voice spoke up suddenly, doubtful. _And how would you sink a Fire Nation warship on your own?_

All he had to do was find the engine room. Sabotage it. They used coal as fuel. Wait, that didn't work…the engine itself was the key. He would destroy the engine.

_How? With your bare fists? _She mocked.

Get the blueprint. Once he had a blueprint, he would know how to render it useless.

_And how would you get your hands on a blueprint?_

Simple. Create a diversion. Break one of the valves or pipes that lined the sides of the ship. Someone would have to come and fix it, and that person would need the blueprints to make sure they were fixing the right thing.

_And you know how to read a blueprint, boy?_ This was Gran-Gran's voice, but harsh and incredibly deep. Perhaps she was congested?

He could. He could read anything and make sense of it. Machines he understood, they made sense. It was logical. The plans of the ship would just tell him the precise things he needed to know. It was logic, connected, and he was sure even without the blueprint he could find his way out by following the exhaust pipes that line the ceilings of the ship.

Sokka spoke to his shadow sister and grandmother, of how he would incapacitate a firebender, dress in his armor, and make his way to the engine room. The blueprints will help him know how to cripple the ship, distracting his captors while he made his escape... Everything would fall in place. He told them about other things that he hadn't had a chance to, about his underground tunnels back home, about his watchtower, about defensive measures he had scribbled into the snow and kept secret to himself. It might go over Gran-Gran's head, but Katara was clever, she would be able to follow. He would explain it all, if only his hands were free and he could draw them out on a parchment…anything.

_Sokka, it's time you wake up_. Katara's voice was distant and stern, no longer inquiring.

As soon as he drew his plans, dammit! Why did she always have to rush things?

_Because it's time to wake up._

What?

_WAKE UP!_

Even before Sokka opened his eyes he knew something had changed. No longer were his arms shackled above his head, and the chain around his neck was gone. He lay supine, for once staring up at a boring dark metal ceiling. His body felt heavy and weak; however his arms and wrists tingled with life, instead of the horrifying numbness that had come after the pain of being fettered like a wild beast. He ached, every joint protesting, but his limbs were free, nothing confining them other than a thin rough blanket that covered his practically nude body. The pallet underneath him was soft compared to the metal floor, and Sokka could make out the feel of hay that had been used to stuff the pallet on his bare back.

"Ah, you're awake."

Eyes snapping open, Sokka did not recognize the strained, startled gasp that came from his lips. He was still in his prison on the Fire Nation ship; windowless, dark wretched place. However, for once, it was different…

…for one, he was no longer alone…

An aged man sat beside him, and Sokka recognized him immediately as Fire Nation. His hair was pulled up and pinned with a gold band that had the fire emblem on it. His robes were crimson and black, long, and well made and fitted. His gray side burns and chin hairs were trimmed and well groomed. Not a prisoner, but not in soldier uniform either.

"You've suffered a horrible fever, young man, and nearly succumbed to illness," the old man's voice echoed in the tiny metal prison, firm, yet gentle, and desperately Sokka tried to memorize the sound of it. It had been so long since someone had spoken to him, even if he were Fire Nation. "Commander Zhao was lucky that we crossed paths, or else he would have suffered greatly for letting you perish before presenting you to the Fire Lord."

Sokka felt his poor muscle's cramp up, and his joints become rigid. He turned his head away, clenching his jaw, forcing a despairing sound down. Shivering, he willed his mouth open, and even to his ears, his voice sounded hollow and broken from lack of use when he asked, "Who are you?"

A hand that felt like warm flames came to rest on his forehead, turning him back to face the elder man, forcing Sokka to meet the other's amber eyes. For a second, he feared he had angered the man by his question, but then realized that his face was being studied intently. The hand moved from his forehead to brush once against his hair in an almost affectionate manner, then to his cheek and neck. When the hand did not move, Sokka jerked away, unnerved by the overly familiar touch from an enemy.

The old man sighed, and turned away to lift a small ceramic cup then reached for him again. "Drink this. It will make you feel better."

Sokka recoiled, his limbs feeling like jelly, and doing very little to support him. But his rejection was ignored and a thick strong arm slithered underneath his shoulders and expertly pulled him up into a seated position. Dizziness washed over him, and for a moment he felt completely overwhelmed. His hands came forward to weakly push against the man's fat chest, but his muscles were useless things, his arms shaking from the mere motion, hands grotesquely swollen and worthless. When the old man brought the cup to his lips he felt panic set, and was even more horrified at how much his voice shook when he gasped out, "Stop!"

"It is just water. There is nothing to fear."

The old man's voice was gentle and coaxing, but Sokka knew it was a Fire Nation trick. Poison. They were going to poison him.

"_NO!"_ He cried out, his voice cracking, his arms uselessly trying to knock the cup away.

The man paused. Pulling the cup away, he brought it to his own mouth, and took a hearty gulp from it. Licking his lips and grinning. "There is nothing to fear. It is just water."

Sokka was not fooled by the ruse. He knew seasoned warriors poisoned themselves for years until their bodies became immune to the toxins. It was an ancient Earth Kingdom war tactic.

Once again, Sokka attempted to upend the cup, determined to fight till the end. He glared his hate and malice at the man who held him, and when he was offered the poison again he made to bite the offending hand.

"Shh," the old man let out a deep breath, "that is enough." And ignoring Sokka's panicked attacks and increased thrashing, he held Sokka firm as the cup was pushed through the boy's lips and clenched teeth. So resistant Sokka's jaw shook as cool liquid filled his mouth. When he tried to spit it out, a hand made of iron clamped over his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow. "Taste it."

And with no other choice, Sokka did.

Water. It was water.

When the cup came to his lips again, but he did not fight, swallowing greedily till the cup was empty. He nearly sobbed when the old man laid him back down, his hands clinging to the front of his crimson robe. But those strong hands took hold of him, forcing him completely down.

"You were severely dehydrated by the time I boarded this ship," said the old man. "I know they were not feeding you properly, but I was assured that you were being given 'adequate' water." His face grimaced into something fierce, and Sokka could not look away for fear the man would disappear. "Although 'adequate' means just enough to keep you alive, and with the fever you were completely drained." Then he comically wagged a stern finger into Sokka's face, "But too much all at once will make you just purge it out. We will take it slowly till you regain your strength. Agreed?"

Had Sokka had the energy, he would have laughed at how ridiculous it must have looked, having this crazy Fire Nation man lecturing him when he could barely move independently. So he swallowed, nearly rolling his eyes at how wonderful the residual water tasted in his mouth, and then asked again, "Who are you?'

Eyes beneath long gray brows blinked down at him. The old man chuckled, his voice deep and jovial sounding as he rubbed the back of his head in a rueful manner. "Forgive me, you asked already and I did not answer. My name is Iroh. I've been taking care of you since Commander Zhao summoned me to this ship."

"But why?" The question came out before Sokka thought it through.

All humor left old man Iroh. He helped Sokka to sit up again, giving him another cup of water and laying him down before answering in a low serious tone, "The Fire Lord ordered Commander Zhao to bring him the daughter of the Southern Water Tribe Chief Hakoda, and the Fire Lord is not the forgiving type when his orders are not followed through. Unfortunately for the general, it seems the daughter had recently perished, leaving only Chief Hakoda's son. You." Amber eyes pierced into Sokka, shrewd eyes that rarely missed unspoken details. Eyes that made the saliva in the boy's mouth clot and taste foul. It was impossible for this man not to know. Those eyes told him that he knew Sokka was hiding something, and if not now, but soon he would know everything that the boy hid. Then, Iroh took his horrible gaze away, and reached for a bowl that sat beside him and started stirring its contents as he continued, "Commander Zhao is already in a bind, for he cannot return empty handed. Death would be imminent for him if you too, his only trump card, were to perish before he could present you to his lord."

Sokka found himself propped up again, and this time a spoon full of warm broth was presented to his mouth. He was already salivating before he could take the spoon in. It was a bland and tasteless broth, but at the moment every cell in his body screamed for nourishment of any kind….even a meatless one.

"So," he said between loud messy slurps, "You're here just to keep me alive." Some broth ran down his chin, and the old man used his own robe sleeve to wipe it away. Sokka stared at him.

"Yes," agreed Iroh, ignoring his accusing look to continue simultaneously hold him up and feed him. "Though I wonder if you are the type who will make it difficult for me to do my duty."

Sokka turned his head away when he was offered another spoonful of broth, already feeling his shrunken stomach filled to its brim by no more than ten bites. "I don't want to die," He took a moment to close his eyes, remembering the last image of his home, the lone figure standing on the snowy hill. He _couldn't_ let himself die.

"Good," Iroh let out a breath, reclining him back down and tucking the blanket snugly around him. "It would be a great shame that a bright young lad such as you to have his life end so soon." He stood, his knees and back cracking just like Gran-Gran. He fisted his hands into his lower back, and went into extension, groaning at the sound of a hallow pop. "You should get some sleep," he said, despite the fact Sokka's eyes were already heavy. "Because when next you wake, we're going to get you up and moving. Such a shame having a youth incapacitated at such a ripe age. You should be hitting your growth spurt soon. My nephew hit it last year, and one moment I was speaking down to him and next I nearly injure my neck having to look up. If I am guessing right, he's about your age, possibly older, but then, both his mother and father were of decent height. Not me, I took after MY mother…"

Try as he might, Sokka could not keep awake. And for the first time since he had been taken away, he dreamt of giants and pygmies, rather than his sister's accusing stare.

**~~~Honor and Pride~~~**

When Sokka first met Commander Zhao, he knew immediately that the man was driven by ambition. He was the type that his father warned him about, the type who would use, manipulate, and sell his own soul to achieve his goals and climb up the ranks of leadership. The dangerous kind, the one who would betray his closest confidences if it met his goals. No one was safe around him, and only a fool would ever place his trust in him.

That was Commander Zhao.

Well, it wasn't exactly the first time seeing him. Zhao had been the one to order his arrest after Sokka duped him into believing that Katara had been dead by using the poor Mikka's body. Back then Zhao barely spared him a moment's thought. Angered that his prey, the daughter of the Southern Water Tribe chief Hakoda was dead, he had simply barked out orders to his men and never bothered to inspect how his captive was fairing…

…At least not until he had been informed that the boy prisoner had become deathly ill…or so Sokka had been told by his very talkative caretaker.

So when Zhao appeared, solemn and menacing and looking straight at him as if he had somehow deceived him – which he had – Sokka froze like an animal about to have a spear plunged into its heart by a hunter.

Commander Zhao was neither tall nor short, his features neither appealing nor grotesque. The only unique feature about him was his extremely hairy sideburns, which were thicker than any southern water tribesman could attempt to grow. His face was square shaped and bullish, a severe expression was permanently carved into his skin by deep wrinkles. A hard man, but his eyes flickered with inner sly intellect and cunning.

Sokka was sitting up on his own, Iroh settled comfortably across from him with a pai sho board and tiles in between them. The old man obsessively loved the game, and Sokka knew the basics from his father. Only the men knew how to play, and once Katara asked him to teach it to her, he refused. It was a man's game, not suitable for the delicate mind of a woman no matter how clever she was. Katara hadn't spoken to him for three days, and the subject was dropped. Sokka appreciated the strategy, playing with the tiles and using them to their full extent. Old man Iroh was sneaky and ruthless in his play, and Sokka was determined to somehow beat the old geezer.

But Zhao's entrance halted the game, and all entertainment was sucked out of the boy's bones. Careful. He had to be very careful.

"I see the boy is doing much better under your watchful eye, General Iroh," Zhao's voice slithered like a water eel.

"Yes," Iroh agreed cheerfully, somehow unperturbed by the toxic attitude of his comrade, or the shocked look Sokka aimed at him at the statement of his title. Sokka knew that Iroh was Fire Nation, had always known. However, he would never have guessed that he was at the top of the chain of command in the army. It made no sense why someone with his title and stature would be demoted to caring for a prisoner. "Though, I cannot take the credit for his speedy recovery. Sokka here was quite determined to get himself back on his feet."

The old man's nonchalant disposition made Zhao's mouth twitch into a grimace. "Indeed," he stared down at Sokka for a moment, then pulled out a parchment from his belt and unrolled it. Dark suspicious eyes darted across the writing there, before returning his gaze to the boy. "I will ask you one time, boy, and one time only," he said, his voice menacing as he finally addressed Sokka. "How did you get your hands on the construction plan of this ship?"

Sokka gaped, his jaw falling open like a dying fish. He turned to look at Iroh, who sat silent and stone-like. Panic gripped him, and Sokka's head started shaking before he could command his voice to speak out, "I didn't!" He realized he was addressing the wrong person and turned towards the commander, his voice rising in his fear, "I didn't!"

Zhao's face twisted murderously, the small cell's temperature rapidly rose with the commander's temper. He took a step forward, hand reaching in violence towards Sokka, and the boy shrank back, both in fear and defense. His hands, now mobile under that expert care of old man Iroh, were brought up in preparation for an assault.

And just when it seemed inevitable that Sokka would be struck either by fist or flame, General Iroh's voice cut the tension in half. "Commander Zhao, you yourself stated that the boy had been imprisoned as if he were a waterbender. Hands unable to move. Head facing down. Held on his knees so that he could not move nor look up to attempt anything. You were adamant when I asked you if the soldiers assigned to his cell were guards and not the mechanics nor technicians that would have access to the plans. How is it possible that this boy could have done what you are accusing him of?"

"You heard him yourself, General. Do not play dumb and deaf. The boy had knowledge of the floor plans; the guards, you, and I all heard him babbling of his plans to escape!" Zhao's voice rose, his posture furious.

Sokka could only stare speechless as Iroh took up his cup of jasmine tea and sipped it calmly. "Zhao," he stated blandly, "The boy is the son of the chief of the most prominent tribe in the South Pole. His father with his small fleet are the very same that have been decimating our naval ships on the western shores of the Earth Kingdom. This is not some simple peasant boy. His father educated him well. While mad with fever he simply stated what he had known the whole time."

"He could have escaped!" snarled the commander, shaking with fury…or fear of what could have been.

"And what a spectacular escape it would have been!" laughed Iroh, winking audaciously at the dumbstruck Sokka. "I would have greatly wanted to be present if he had attempted such and plan! Brilliant if he had single handedly been able to succeed! Truly, he would be his father's son!"

Zhao could only sputter at this before storming out of the cell, slamming it shut behind him, leaving the original two occupants once again alone to their game.

Sokka realized that his hands shook, whether from fear or adrenaline he did not know. Iroh noticed and after a grave look, handed him a cup of tea. A few sips later, Sokka felt himself relax enough to say, "I didn't, you know. Take the plan…I mean."

The old man, who had returned to studying the pai sho board, did not glance up from the game, intent on the tiles when he said, "I know. Even Zhao knows. He just doesn't want to believe that despite the state you were in, that you could think up of such a precise and accurate plan of escape."

"Oh," he said lamely, looking at the jasmine steam coming from the cup in his hands, feeling its warmth. He could not remember. "Was it really good?" He shyly lifted his eyes to look at Iroh.

"Staggering genius," was the shrewd and sly reply. "But, I do think you should try to do something about this whole talking while delirious thing. I would suggest avoiding any alcohol for the time being…especially when with a pretty girl…"

**~~~Honor and Pride~~~**

Old man Iroh was crazy. Completely insane and demented, yet he had the sharpest mind Sokka had ever met. His father had always been the one person he wanted to surpass, finding no man or woman who could come near his father's ingenuity and brilliance at strategy and invention. Hakoda's sense of humor was the best of all, laid back, and smooth in a way that no one understood except Sokka. However, Sokka could not help but compare his father to the old Fire Nation man who was both his caretaker and captor.

Perhaps, when his father grew old and weathered, that he would one day be like Iroh. Or perhaps, Sokka could beat his father in achieving such a goal.

Try as he might, he could not deny this odd admiration lightly. It was clear, he was still a prisoner; despite how kind and gentle the old man was to him. Yet, though a prisoner, Iroh treated him as a teacher would a student, recounting tales of escapades – that sometimes left the boy blushing - of strategies he had used against his enemies – the Earth Kingdom in particular always came up in his stories, in which Iroh never failed to sing the earthbenders strength and fortitude even if he was superior in strategy.

"You can have all the education, intelligence, strategy, and weaponry at your side," the old man had told him one day, his hands massaging Sokka's sore leg muscles after having taken the boy through some exercises to strengthen and restore balance to his neglected extremities. "However, without sheer determination to fight for what is precious to you, even the mightiest armies can fall to a smaller, less powerful force."

"Like the siege of Ba Sing Se?" Sokka asked.

Iroh smiled, and Sokka almost for a moment thought he saw a deep sadness in the old man's eyes. However, the other's voice was light and cheerful as he replied, "Ah, the impenetrable walls of the great city! We, the Fire Nation no doubt are more sophisticated in our art of war, however, we lacked the Earth Kingdom soldier's ferocious protectiveness of their city and home. We had no chance."

Sokka smiled at the other's honesty, but then his thoughts turned dark, his mind taking him back home and to the memory of Katara, and further back, to stories of a people long dead and slaughtered. "It doesn't always work that way," he said.

"No, it doesn't," Iroh did not hide his sorrow this time, his face sagging under the burden of years.

He was a walking contradiction, old man Iroh. Why, with all his sympathies and pride of the enemies of his nation, continued to serve under a monarchy with ideals and military conquests that he obviously rejected, made no sense. He was a prism of mysteries that despite his openness with Sokka, kept his secrets private beneath charm and merriment.

It was when Iroh stood him for the first time, holding him up securely and helped him coach his legs to move, that Sokka could not help but look up at the old man and ask, "Why are you doing this? Why stay loyal to the Fire Lord when you obviously disagree with everything that the Fire Nation is doing?" His voice had risen in desperation, his hands clenching into Iroh's arms.

When the old man did not answer, fury gripped Sokka's heart, and he could not bear the touch of the other. He pushed away, managing only two shaky steps before his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees. Angry tears stung at his eyes, and quickly he wiped them away with his arm, unwilling to show further weakness. He had miscalculated, letting himself to become emotionally vulnerable with the only person who had shown him kindness during his captivity.

A heavy hand landed on his head, thick calloused fingers running through his warrior's tail. Iroh had not been allowed to let Sokka shave the sides of his head, but had made sure to provide a comb and thread so that the boy could tie his hair back to maintain his pride as a man of the Water Tribe. Sokka had been thankful, telling Iroh the tale of polar wolves that were the greatest hunters of the South Pole, and how the warrior's tail symbolized the beginning change from boy to man. A thick head of dark hair was a man and woman's pride, just like the thick pelt of the wolf.

Now, the hand on his head, the fingers in his hair mocked Sokka, played with him. Iroh was Fire Nation, the enemy that was responsible for the decimation of his home and family. He had no RIGHT to touch Sokka's pride. Not here, in this floating metal prison that took him closer and closer to his doom.

His arm swung up, knocking the taunting hand away. "Don't you _dare_ pity me," he hissed, refusing to look up, refusing to acknowledge how his arm burned from striking the hand that had only ever showed gentleness towards him. False, deceptive kindness. "What was I thinking?" he laughed, again roughly wiping betraying wetness in his eyes. "As if I could expect any honor from a Fire Nation solider. You _know_ what you guys are doing is wrong, and yet you do nothing. You're nothing but a coward," he spat the words out viciously.

There was a heavy silence, so weighed and thick that Sokka felt himself choking in it. He had been so careful before, but he had slipped. He should have known better. He should have…

"I am a coward."

Sokka's head moved on its own, his eyes jerking up to meet the sad eyes of Iroh. "I am a coward," the general repeated, and when he reached for the boy again, Sokka had no will to pull away, the hand coming back to stroke his hair as the old man spoke words tinged with such despair that he could not help but think of Gran-Gran so far away, "Even if I wanted to, I cannot move forward. My honor is not my own to lose or keep. My choices not only my own. My fate not mine. I am trapped by circumstances just like you, dear boy."

"Wha…what?"

Hot, calloused finger pads brushed against his lashes, wiping away the tears that would not fall, and then coming to rest on Sokka's shoulders, heavy. "You won't allow yourself to die, because you know what you will be leaving behind if you do, you know the consequences. Whatever your reasons, what hand fate played to allow yourself to be taken, I understand the sacrifice."

Sokka frowned, "You're a prisoner too?" He could not believe his words, even if it did make sense on why an army general was tasked with caring for a prisoner.

Iroh sighed, and allowed a melancholy smile to stretch across his lips, "I may not be shackled, nor stripped bare, but I am chained just as tightly as you are. My movements can never truly be my own. Not yet."

Sokka blinked his eyes. A silhouette of his young waterbending sister stood in the shadows of his cell, watching with ice cold eyes over Iroh's shoulder. The specter would not leave him, even when his mind was lucid. He would never forget what he was here for, who he would never let the Fire Nation touch.

Perhaps, Iroh too had his own ghosts that haunted him, never letting him break away from the Fire Nation. He too had something…someone to protect just as fiercely as Sokka.

Iroh helped him back to his feet, and he was taken back to his pallet and settled down. Sokka had no more words for the old man. How could he with such a thing hanging over the both of them?

"Sokka," Iroh's voice demanded attention then, and Sokka obeyed, looking up at the other. "I do not know what awaits you at the Fire Nation, what plans the Fire Lord will have for you. But never forget who you are, where you came from."

Sokka swallowed, remembering the taste of ice and snow, the smell of the cooking fire, the feel of furs, and the sound of his family's voices.

"You carry the blood of the fierce Water Tribe warriors, the son of a great chief and leader. Never give up without a fight. Even if your are forced to the ground, even if they try to break you; they can never take your honor and pride away from you if you don't let them." Iroh paused, leaning forward, "Do you understand?"

"Yeah," whispered Sokka, not looking away from the old man. "I understand," he told his sister's shadow.

**~~~Honor and Pride~~~**

Sokka had been settling into his sleeping pallet one evening, when Commander Zhao decided to pay him a visit. He ordered the guard at his door to keep it locked, and to refuse anyone entrance until he was done. And as the door slid shut and the lock set in place with a loud _clang, _Sokka felt his heart shudder.

For a few horrible minutes Zhao did nothing but stand straight, his hooded eyes sharp in their gaze at the boy. Sokka remained in place on his pallet, like an animal frozen in the sight of a python about to strike.

And strike he did, in the blink of an eye he was suddenly over Sokka, a large hand slamming onto the boy's head and fingers twisting into his hair. He was yanked to his feet, and pulled up to his toes by the cruel grip, Sokka's hands went flying up to grip at Zhao's armored wrist, attempting to allievate some of the pain. And when the man pulled him up further, Sokka could not stop a pained yelp.

Zhao chuckled and let go, amused when the boy's still weak legs buckled underneath him and fell with another yell.

Sokks clutched at his scalp, darting nervous eyes at his captor as the man looked about his prison. Something caught his attention in the corner, and curious Sokka looked in that direction.

"Bring it here, boy," Zhao ordered suddenly, his voice sneering in disgust.

Sokka knew better than to question that order, and soundlessly, he rose onto shaky feet and fetched the board and the small box which housed its tiles. He was then ordered to set it up, and as he performed the task he could feel a cold sweat develop as he slowly began to understand what Zhao intended.

When the board had been set, Zhao sat on the other side of the board, using his cape as buffer from the dirty prison ground.

"I've seen you play with General Iroh, that soft-hearted fool," Zhao spoke, lazily fingering one of the flower tiles. "Even though he doesn't speak of his games with you, I can hear his enthusiasm when he mentions you and the game. So come, show me what you are worth."

With those words Zhao proceeded to annihilate Sokka in the game. He attacked like a blaze, with overwhelming power that left Sokka reeling from the ferocity of it. The man played to win, sacrificing what he needed to attain his goal in destroying the boy's defenses. Game after game, Sokka had no chance, having gotten used to playing with Iroh who had a far more gentle, guiding hand.

Commander Zhao snarled if Sokka spent too long in thought, and he played with that speed. And it was in the middle of their fifth game that Sokka found that speed a weakness in the man's strategy. He relied on the flowers, the tiles more easy to manipulate, and so it was by playing the Wheel tile, that he turned the tables, rotating all the pieces the finally giving Zhao a pause.

And pause Zhao did, when at the eighth game, Sokka won.

For the first time since his capture, Sokka felt a wave of absolute triumph. His lips stretched out into a jaw splitting grin, and he had to pinch his thigh to force himself not to start laughing at the flummoxed look on the Commander's face. He knew that he should stay silent in the face of this man. He _KNEW_ better…

However, though he could suppress expressing his mirth, he could not stall his words when he askled, "How worthy am I now?"

The Pai Sho board was sent flying, tiles scattering all over the small prison, the board striking against the far wall and splintering in half by sheer force. Commander Zhao lurched up to his feet, and when Sokka felt the temperature begin to rise, he knew he was doomed.

Sokka managed to shuffle one foot backwards before Zhao's booted foot slammed into his chest, knocking him the breath out of him as he back connected with the floor. He managed a pained wheeze before all air was cut off when that same boot came down over his throat and pressed down. Panicked, suffocating, Sokka kicked out with his thin legs, his hand clawing uselessly at the thick leather of the Fire Nation's boot. His heels hit the floor of his prison with dull thuds, barely making any sounds.

So this was how he would die…

As his struggles weakened, he could not help but look up at his killer, Zhao's dark eyes stared back down at him, merciless and cruel, his thick brows knotted. "I should crush you right here," Zhao hissed darkly, leaning down over the boy while maintaining the pressure, his vision becoming hazy. "Nothing good could come of keeping you alive."

Suddenly the pressure was gone, and Sokka was able to cough and gasp in some air. He struggled to let the oxygen into his abused throat, his chest burning, acid rising from his stomach making everything burn in agony. He curled in his place on the prison floor, broken, terrified that Zhao would strike again…

And when Zhao spoke, Sokka could hear the absolute revulsion in the man's voice, "I pray my lord has you lick the filth from his shoes, for _that_ is all you are worth."

**~~~Honor and Pride~~~**

When they had been young, he and Katara liked to sneak out of the village in the early morning hours. Even if they were blinded, they still would have been able to reach the penguin's home. Even if their hands were tied behind their backs, they would have been able to capture a penguin. And even if their legs were tied, they would have still been able to penguin sled down the snowy hills that surrounded the village.

They had the will, and Sokka never doubted that he could find a way to achieve his goals.

Hopelessness was not a feeling Sokka had been raised with. Oh, he saw it, especially in the eyes of his grandmother, but Kya and Hakoda had been very proud, and they raised him and Katara with that pride. In the weeks since his capture, he had become acquainted with being hopeless – the chains had taught him that. It left a rancid taste in his mouth, and when he tried to sleep, he woke in a horrible cold sweat.

As his body was gaining in strength, his mind continued to go back to Katara. He could see her face, horrified in the small shed before he pushed her into his tunnel. She looked like their mother, except his sister's eyes could become colder than the glaciers in the winter. Katara was always angry, especially after their father left to fight. Sokka could not blame her. Even though she was the only waterbender he had ever seen - what a horrible bender she was - he had paid attention to the stories told around the campfires at night. Of the waterbender warrior's ferociousness, of their pride, and how they never gave up. The last waterbender in the South Pole, a warrior named Hama, had fought alone against every single Fire Nation soldier until their numbers overwhelmed her and took her away.

He was sure, even if Hama were chained the way he had been, she would have fought, defied, made hell for her captors. The same with Katara, if she were taken away. She would not have given up, allowed herself to lie back as she became stronger and stronger and just let herself be a submissive prisoner. Commander Zhao's voice shook with the fear of the possibility that he escaped. Old man Iroh did not doubt that he, a mere boy from the South Pole, could find a way to escape.

And it was at night, alone in his cell, the thought of Katara's eyes compelled him to attempt escape. Whether death of further incarceration waited him in the Fire Nation, he had to fight them till his very last breath.

It was an impulsive move, one that was out of character for Sokka. He was still extremely weak, shaky on his feet. However, desperation had nothing to do with plans or the logic of one's actions. Sokka upended a pail of drinking water, and holding it close to his chest, he stood leaning against the wall beside the door to his prison. He would have to strike from behind, a cowardly blow, but desperation had nothing to do with honor in battle. The area between the Fire Nation soldier's helmet and armor, a precise strike to the neck would incapacitate the one who entered. It would be enough to run for it.

Before there was even time to doubt his actions, the door slid open and a figure entered. Sokka struck down with all his might, but let out a yell when a large hand clamped over one of his forearms, swinging him harshly so that he lost hold of his weapon. Next instant, Sokka's face slammed into the wall, and stunned, his feet collapsed underneath him and he went down.

"That was not a smart move."

Sokka shook his head, and lifted his aching eyes up to meet Iroh's disapproving amber look.

"I had to try," Sokka's mouth moved without him thinking. Thinking. He _wasn't_ thinking! What if it had been another soldier, or worse, Zhao? What if Sokka HAD been killed? Would Zhao go back to the South Pole? Would he this time successfully capture Katara? All because Sokka had let desperation get the better of him. What had he sacrificed his freedom for in the first place?

Infuriated at himself, Sokka realized that his arm was still caught up in the old man's iron hold. It enraged him, so much that he saw red. He tried to yank his arm back, and when it would not give he yelled up at his captor, _"I HAD TO TRY!"_

He nearly swallowed his tongue when he was yanked up, then abruptly dumped into his pallet. His arm was freed, and he cradled it, focusing on how it ached. It grounded him, this pain. Reminded him of his priorities.

Iroh sat on the floor beside him, and Sokka swallowed a lump in his throat when he realized that the old man was holding a tray of tea. He had deftly defeated the boy one handed while balancing his favorite drink. Sokka felt his teeth clench in shame, and he dropped his gaze and averted it, unable to look at the other.

"I…just had to try _something_…" he choked.

Iroh poured himself a cup of tea and solemnly took a sip.

There was nothing to be said.

**~~~Honor and Pride~~~**

Sokka had not been aware that the ship had docked. He woke up to his prison door opening, and two Fire Nation soldiers entered and manhandled him to his feet. His hands were shackled, and he was pulled out. Iroh was not present, and Sokka hesitated in his steps, looking desperately for the old man, but his shoulders were gripped harshly and he was pushed forward.

He was led down a metal corridor to a doorway where Admiral Zhao stood. The fierce man looked down his nose at him, taking in his bare feet, and the simple drawstring pants and cotton tunic that Iroh had given him after his first bath. Sokka forced himself to meet his captors gaze, feeling his insides shrivel.

Zhao grimaced, and waved his hand. Out of nowhere, one of the soldiers at his side produced a small knapsack, and threw it over Sokka's head. He cried out, stumbling away as his sight was taken from him, but merciless hands held him as the bag was tied around his neck tight enough to let the boy know that if pulled it might cut off his airway.

Not a single word was uttered. Two pairs of hands gripped his arms, and he was propelled forward, sometimes carried as his feet stumbled in haste. He felt metal beneath his feet turn to gravel, and then to cold hard marble. The stale air of the ship shifted to the humid breeze and scent of the outside, and then finally to the cold of being within a stone building.

This was too fast, Sokka's panicked mind screamed. Things were moving too fast. He wasn't ready. He hadn't even been able to say good bye to old man Iroh. He wasn't prepared for this change. He was suffocating in this bag. He would be executed, thrown into an inferno to burn to death. They knew…they had to know that he had deceived them. They were going to kill him and go back to take Katara. He had failed, it was all his fault…how could he have thought that his plan would work? How…

Sokka was suddenly thrown forward, and he landed on his elbows and knees, sliding slightly against the smooth floor, his teeth biting into his tongue so that he tasted blood. A foot landed in the middle of his back, keeping him down, and then the bag was savagely torn from his head.

Gasping for breath, Sokka felt his eyes widen as he looked up into a wall of flames - controlled, precise - blocking anyone from approaching a figure sitting on a throne on the other side. He did not need to see his face to know who sat there.

Fire Lord Ozai. Admiral Zhao was finally presenting him to the man who ruled and commanded the Fire Nation and all its conquered territories.

The boy dropped his gaze, his eyes clenched shut, his head resting against chained arms.

It was over. He was dead.

"My lord," Zhao's voice echoed loudly in the royal throne room, "I bring you the child of the enemy of your state, betrayer and usurper of your grand nation. Southern Water Tribe chieftain Hakoda's son."

The silence that followed was electric, and if possible, Sokka would have sunk in between the tiles of marble to escape this horrible meeting.

"Admiral Zhao," Fire Lord Ozai's voice was the most horrible sound Sokka had ever heard. Poison; this man was pure poison. "You saw the body of Hakoda's daughter with your own eyes?"

"Yes, my lord," responded Zhao. "She was dead before we arrived."

"Show him to me," came the command.

Sokka was immediately pulled to his trembling feet, a hand in his hair forcing his face to turn upward to face the Fire Lord. Sokka could only stare in paralyzed horror at the man on the other side of the flames. He could make out a tall, broad shouldered man. He had long, long black hair, pulled up as Fire Nation tended to do, but by a crown that symbolized the fire within every firebender. His face was broad, stoic, but with eyes that reflected nothing, which was more terrifying than the flames that Sokka feared.

Bile suddenly rose in his throat when the boy realized that the Fire Lord was studying him - watching him tremble, chained, and frozen in absolute terror.

A hideous laugh came from the ruler of the Fire Nation, and he waved a lazy hand. "We have much to discuss, Commander Zhao. But first, take him. The little beast is not ready to gaze upon me yet."

Once again, the sack was thrown over Sokka's head and he was yanked away. Sokka tripped and stumbled over his shaken feet, unable to keep himself balanced, his mind reeling. One of the soldiers that held him let out a low curse, and lifted him by his arm, forcing him down cold, frigid corridors, up numerous steps. He tried to pay attention to the direction he was being taken, but the fear numbed his mind.

Then, the sound of a door opening and quite suddenly he was thrown down again, two knees on his back as he lay on his belly. The chains on his wrists were unlocked and taken away, and the bag torn from him. He was still blinking, disoriented, when the weight was lifted, and the soldiers disappeared, a door shutting and locking behind him. Candles lit all around him, and Sokka lay still on his stomach, gasping for breath, trying to calm himself as he looked left and right at his new cell.

His new prison was meant for a king. Larger than any of the igloos built in his village. There were four straight walls giving the cell a square shape made of the smoothest stone Sokka had ever seen. The bed was ridiculously big, and oddly built into the floor, with only a single step up to it. Translucent red cloth hung from the ceiling down to the floor surrounding the bed, giving it an odd sort of privacy while not hiding a thing at all. The floor was bare of any carpeting or rugs, the smooth stone hard and cold under Sokka. There were not tables, no chairs, not even a cushion. Just the bed in the floor with its red cloth, and single tapestry with the Fire Nation insignia hanging near the wall facing the bed.

Sokka could not wrap his mind around this room. It made no sense, and trying to make sense of it made him think of the Fire Lord. The Fire Lord's command. The Fire Lord's voice. His horrible figure on the other side of the fire.

_Fire Lord Ozai…._

Sokka's stomach twisted painfully and the boy scrambled toward the side of the curious bed to a small golden bowl that might have been a bed pan. He had no time to contemplate the expensive metal in his hands before Sokka bent over and retched into it. Foul, acidic bile was purged from his stomach, leaving the boy shaking weakly. He pushed the bowl away from him, and pressed his sweaty forehead into the cold stone of the floor.

Sokka had met Fire Lord Ozai.


	3. Chapter Three: What the Beast Endures

A/N: I have no excuse for this chapter. The whole reason I came up with the whole concept is because of the horrible things that happen here. Once again, please read each individual chapter warning.

Please give a hand to my wonderful beta B-chan who made this chapter readable!

Chapter Warning: Non-consensual sex/rape of a minor.

**HONOR AND PRIDE**  
_**Chapter Two :**_ _What the Beast Endures…_

There were no chains here in this new prison. No collars to keep his face down, no metal manacles to chafe at his wrists. It was warm, and there was light. There was a bed, with both pillows and sheets for his comfort. He was fed, and the food was good.

Something was terribly wrong.

Imprisonment was nothing like Sokka imagined it to be. No, his experience on the battleship, the chains and agony of being left hanging was more to what he thought would continue. Instead, it was almost as if he had been abandoned in the massive room he had been dumped in from the first day, chainless. Despite the sparseness of furniture and lack of décor, the room was meant to house a king, or someone of great importance. This room was not fit for a Water Tribe prisoner.

The bed in particular aggravated him. It was large enough to lay a whole family of five side-by-side. There were over ten pillows of varying sizes, each embroidered with gold depictions of flames and phoenixes. The sheets were thin and smooth, cooling, yet a blood red hue that made Sokka grimace at. He preferred the colors of the moon and snow, the silver, blue, and deep black of the night reflected in the water. The Fire Nation colors were too harsh and bright, just like its citizens and soldiers. The shear cloths that fell from the ceiling were also red, so that if Sokka slept on the bed he would be surrounded by the callous shade, his skin reflecting the colors of flame.

For this, Sokka did not sleep on the bed. He pulled the fine sheets off and bundled himself down onto the floor.

The bed was just _wrong_.

He made a nuisance of himself in the beginning. Yelling, and screaming, and banging his fists on the metal door that served as an entrance and exit to his prison. When his newly healed hands began to protest the abuse, he kicked till that tired him out. He then set his mind to ruining the room, using his fingers and nails to tear at the pillows and gutting them of the soft white stuffing. He tried to tear down the shears, but they remained sturdy linked to the metal ceiling. Even the tapestry with the Fire Nation emblem refused to budge when he pulled and yanked at it.

A couple days into his new imprisonment, he climbed up the tapestry, and by the time he reached the top three guards burst into his room. Just like on the ship, they wore armor and helmets that covered their faces. All three raised their fists at him, their stances wide. A threat of fire. Sokka climbed down, and when his feet were on the floor the soldiers wordlessly left him, locking the door behind them.

Everyone that entered the room was masked. The guards that came in with his food trays. The women that came to replace the torn pillows. Even the servants that carried the washing tub and stood to the side as he bathed – all were masked. Sokka had tried to converse with them, but they remained silent, motionless. Even when Sokka splashed water all over the floor, they simply mopped it up. Even when Sokka pulled one into the tub, completely drenching him, not a sound came out.

Not once had he been touched.

Silence and solitude was the Fire Nation's method of mind torture for him. Sokka understood this tactic. They wanted to isolate him, keep him apart from the world outside, and separate him from any human contact. If he hadn't fallen ill on the ship, and required old man Iroh to nurse him back to health, Sokka might have been kept in complete isolation throughout the whole duration of the journey to the Fire Nation. He understood it – man was not meant to be alone - but did not understand what purpose, what goal was in mind.

If they truly wanted to keep him devoid of human contact, why not lock him in a real prison cell, chained to a wall, with his food slipped under a door.

What was the purpose of the placing him in this grand room?

He had to knock on the metal door keeping him locked in to receive a chamber pot, which was then immediately collected by a masked servant. Every day his room was visited by servants, faceless, voiceless ghouls. He was given food on trays of gold, and white tub would be rolled in on wheels with steaming water and soap that was scented as if it were for a woman. He was given means to comb his hair, and to trim his nails, but all instruments were taken as soon as they were used. Every morning he was presented with Fire Nation clothes that fit him perfectly, washed and pressed for a prince.

The pampering, the food, the clothes, the room all made Sokka nervous. This was not what he had anticipated or planned for, and it made his stomach twist with nausea at not knowing why. There had to be a reason.

He kept track of the days by the meals that were given to him. Three in total, and for every third meal he would tie a small knot into the tapestry's embroidered fringe. He studied the tapestry, counting the stitches that he could reach – unwilling to attempt climbing it after that first time. He estimated the amount of stitches it took to make it, then estimated how many colors were used to give the right effect. He lay on his stomach on the cool marble floor, letting the chill into his belly, and traced his finger along the edges of each tile. He studied its texture, and wondered how it had been smoothed out so, if it took heat to make it shine. He picked at its colors – sand brown and white – and wondered if there were patterns in the way the white and brown stretched beside each other.

Over a month into his stay, Sokka was sitting on the floor scrutinizing the tapestry, when a servant came in and left him his dinner. A frown twisted his brows before he asked, "Hey, can I have some paper and something to write with?" His voice croaked, sounding old and then childish with the way it cracked from disuse.

The servant did not even pause to acknowledge him, and Sokka turned back to the tapestry.

He did not ask again, but how he wished for anything to write with. Something to put his thoughts down, to work out the puzzles in his mind. Stitches and marble. Perhaps, with some charcoal he would be able to finish diagramming his underground tunnels back home. It would never come to fruition but at least in his mind it would be complete. There was also the mystery of the room he was in. It was windowless so he wondered if he were underground, or high above. The room had been around long before Sokka came, so why would a room of such splendor be built with no windows.

Unless the Fire Nation did not care for windows or the outside. Perhaps it was because of the heat. The marble and stone seemed to be the type to keep the cool inside.

He occupied his mind this way. He would go insane if he didn't.

He might even start to speak to the specter of Katara who often haunted his dreams.

Sokka sang. He never vocalized of his theories and plans – Iroh had warned him of delirious babblings – so instead he sang to keep from forgetting how to speak. Muscles unused would atrophy, the old man cautioned, so he had to exercise his voice before it too withered away. Most of the time, when he sang, he stood by the door to his prison, hoping to irritate his mute guards on the other side. He could not see them, but knew they stood like frigid statues watching his every move.

He used the tapestry as a target and pelted the pillows till he could strike the center of the flame every single time. His hands itched for the smooth feeling of his boomerang, so he trained himself throw with a different spin to them. He gave them names, such as "Sokka's Ultimate Strike", "The Swinging Pillow of Death", "The Cushion that Quenched the Fire". He threw till his shoulder was sore, and his hands blistered from the embroidered stitches on the pillows.

Every day, Sokka ran to every corner of the room, ran until he was covered in sweat and his mouth dry with thirst. He lay prone then would jump up to his feet until his legs were sore and shaky, and pushed and pulled at the immovable bed until his arms were sore. Sokka had to keep moving, or else he would completely cease to be of any use to himself. He had to stay sharp because he knew without both his body and mind he would never be able to survive this….

Whatever _this_ was…

So his days of maddening boredom continued, and with every insignificant thought, he dissected it. He took apart and put back together every little theory of his. From the sometimes obscure gender of his voiceless guards, to the fabric of the shear cloths hanging from the ceiling, to the method that was used to nail his prison door in place – all had to be examined, just so Sokka did not lose his mind.

One month turned into two…and then a third. Sokka began to despair, beginning to think that truly this was all there was. He was going to spend the rest of his captivity in this ridiculous room with its overlarge bed, and if he ever escaped it would all be for naught for he would have gone insane.

And then, the food did not come. Nor the bath. Nor the clothes.

When the bedpan was filled till its brim, he pushed it to the corner. He clung to the door, calling out, and banging against it just as he had done in the beginning. And like before, it led to nothing but silence and sore hands. Hunger set in first, and Sokka wondered if they had decided to let him starve to death.

Then the thirst. All was forgotten when the thirst came to him. It felt as if days were going by, for it became worse and worse, and Sokka's body became tired and fatigued. It was worse than the ship. There at least he got to taste water once a day. Here, surrounded by the ugly red, curled on the floor far away from the hideous bed, Sokka almost wished to be back in those chains, being doused with water. He would gladly go on his hands and knees and lick the drops from the floor. Just for a taste.

Just one taste…

Sokka had fallen asleep against the door when it opened. He fell through with a strangled, dry cry before hands were on him, pulling him back inside. He hung uselessly in between two masked guards, blinking stupidly as his vacant room was filled with servants. The floor was doused with water, that made Sokka lick at his chapped lips, and mopped clean. The sheets and pillows were all stripped and replaced by equally hideous crimson silk. All his waste was removed from the corner, and strong incense was brought in to air the horrible stench out.

Then the tub came in, and Sokka did not have the energy to fight them as he was stripped and dumped into hot steaming water. When he tried to drink it, one servant, with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, tangled a heavy hand through his hair and held him up. Two others got to work scrubbing him, and Sokka could only stare at their masked faces in growing alarm.

This was different, he thought, something is changing. Something…

"H..hey!" He yelped as he was pulled halfway out, and then hands roughly went between his legs, scrubbing where no one had the right to. When he tried to pull away from them, the one with his hand in his hair pulled him forward so that he was nearly hanging off the edge to give better access. Sokka bit into his arm to prevent yelling out again as he was given a humiliatingly thorough cleaning. His face feeling hot even when they were done and his hair went through a meticulous wash.

He was glad when it was over, feeling horribly exposed with heavy dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He was given a silk robe to cover himself. It fell to his knees, and was fitted perfectly to his shoulders and waist, a tie of woven gold held both ends together. When he looked at the servants for pants he found their hands empty, surrounded on all sides by tall broad shouldered adults. Nervously, as if to hold onto something familiar, Sokka reached up to his hair, wanting to tie his wolf's tail. His hands were pulled down by one servant, and only let go when he did not resist.

When the door opened once more, Sokka could only watch as dread became horror. Flanked by four guards, and six masked servants, the tall nightmare that was Fire Lord Ozai entered Sokka's prison. He was not in the full splendor of royal clothes and armor, but in a comfortable robe that fell to his feet with a sash snug around his waist. The Fire Lord stood stoically as the servants that were finished setting up Sokka's room hastily shuffled out, each bowing low at their waists as they passed their lord. The servants surrounding Sokka also retreated, leaving the boy standing alone and exposed to this new threat.

The last servant shut the door, and Sokka startled at the sound of the lock. Barefoot, hair down, half-dressed, Sokka swallowed hard at the terror knotting his stomach.

With a shift of the Fire Lord's chin, two guards advanced towards the water tribe boy. He only could take two steps back before he was grabbed and pulled forward. Shaking wet hair out of his eyes, Sokka found that Ozai had moved from his position near the door, and had made himself comfortable on the large bed, reclining against the numerous red cushions.

Sokka had time to blink only once before he was shoved between the shear red curtains, head first into the mattress of the soft bed. As he struggled up, feeling breathless, he once more looked to the Fire Lord, now finding him picking up a golden goblet from a tray and taking a sip from it. On his hands and knees, Sokka stayed in his place, staring at the clear liquid the Fire Lord drank.

_Water._

Piercingly sharp eyes turned to him, and Sokka could not help but cringe slightly. They were a gold amber color, smoldering with archness and volcanic ambition. They were eyes that had power and knew how to channel it, and used it often. The look held him in place, pinning him like an animal contemplating whether to play with his food or eat it.

To survive, the prey had to be very, very careful.

"You do not sleep in this bed." The Fire Lord spoke, and Sokka gave a startled gasp. The man still held the goblet in one hand, while the other propped against one knee and curled against a cheek. A twisted smirk stretched the edges of his lips before he continued, "It is quite comfortable. A shame that you have not made use of it."

Sokka slowly sat back on his hunches, his fingers curling into the fabric of the bed.

The hand moved from the lord's cheek, and beckoned lazily. "Go ahead, you may speak."

It was a trick. There was nothing lazy about this man.

When he did not move, Ozai once again took a drink from the cup. "You must be thirsty. I believe I gave the order three days ago to starve you."

Sokka stared at this. Ordered to be starved. Why? "Why?" his voice was a dry rasp, and he coughed.

The Fire Lord sat up a bit, leaning forward, and that deceptive hand with its fingers crooked beckoned at him, "Why indeed. Come, we shall drink and discuss my decisions." His arm opened wide, like a benevolent uncle calling a child for a story and some sweets. But this was no uncle, and this was not his home. He was the Fire Lord and he reclined on a lavish bed before a prisoner of war.

Instinct had Sokka do the opposite of the command, and when he made the move to draw back the Fire Lord stuck like a python, a hand tangling into the front of Sokka's tunic and pulling him to the lord's side. When the boy's arms shot out in defense the same hand moved to clamp over his face like a vice. All fight fled Sokka's limbs at the abnormal stinging heat wafting his face. He went rigid and still, understanding the warning for what it was.

Fight and be burned.

When it became obvious that Sokka would submit for the moment, the Fire Lord let his hand drop to rest on a thin trembling shoulder. The boy was pulled closer, so that he was flush against robed side of the lord. Sokka could not move, could barely order his throat to swallow the acrid saliva building up in his mouth. He stared straight ahead, through the red curtains to the silhouette of a guard behind the shears. Suffocating, he was going to suffocate.

The gold goblet touched his bottom lip, startling Sokka with its chill. When pressed forward, Sokka's shaking hands rose and took it, obediently drinking without protest.

Water. Beautiful, clear water.

_Katara…._

The cup was taken from him when he was done and placed on a tray on the other side of them. Sokka watched numbly as a servant collected it, and in its place positioned a small desk that held a rolled parchment, an ink bottle and quill. The Fire Lord reached and opened the parchment, angling it so that Sokka had clear view.

Blue prints. A diagram of a balloon that uses fire to fly, and that was powerful enough to carry at least eight grown men.

"Ah, this interests you."

Sokka shied back, eyes darting up to the Fire Lord. The man's lips were pulled wide in a knowing grin. His teeth showed, and they were very white.

Ozai brought the scroll closer, the paper crinkling between his fingers. "I have men constantly working on inventions like these. Men who understand how to take things apart by looking at them. Men who know how to create amazing inventions that have never been thought of before." He returned the scroll to the desk, and swiped his hand across the surface, flattening all the imperfections. "Their minds are great, but creation takes patience, for it must go through many manifestations before it is perfected."

Compelled, Sokka stared hard at the blueprints, studying the structure carefully. The cables that held the balloon in place seemed stable, and the basket was secure. There was a diagram of a valve, where Sokka could tell fire would be used to direct upward into the balloon. Controlling the amount of power could send a Fire Nation battalion high into the mountains. Lethal weapons undetected in the air.

Sokka's hand was seized, fingers pried open and the quill placed into his resisting extremity. The Fire Lord held him even closer, so that he could feel powerful legs pressing into his own. The arm around him contracted, his hand imprisoned and brought to rest on the parchment. Ink spotted crudely against straight neat lines.

"Show me," The Fire Lord's voice was low, but he spoke right into Sokka's ear so that the boy could feel hot breath shift his hair. It had gotten longer in the last few months, yet it did little to protect him from his tormentor's presence.

Unable to take it, Sokka writhed in the grasp, dropping the pen, and twisting his body. He wanted to be AWAY.

And then that lazy hand, deceptive instrument, darted from Sokka's hand to between his legs. Sokka cried out, tried to jump up and away as what felt like molten lava found its way under his tunic to his exposed genitalia. The boy was pulled down, even as he strained on his knees, both hands grabbing the man's hand and trying to pull it away from him. "No! Let go!" He shouted in panic when the hand tightened so much knives shot through his groin, down his legs, and into his stomach, the sensation of burning made his eyes suddenly filled with tears.

Desperate eyes darted to the guards, trying to make any type of contact in vain. Nothing. They were nothing but puppets that only moved at the beck of their master.

The hand twisted threateningly, and Sokka became paralyzed from pain. He stayed in place for forever before the hand loosened and pulled away. Limbs shaky, the boy crumbled back down, gasping, sweaty, unresisting when he was pulled back up and the quill placed back into trembling fingers. The tip was guided back to the scroll, and the image distorted with tears when the Fire Lord whispered, "Show me."

His hair whipped at his cheeks when Sokka shook his head, eyes clenched shut against the wetness that blinded him. He let out a small yell when he felt a hot hand on his thigh, pushing his robe up threateningly. "Don't…" he chocked out.

"Show me."

Taking a shuddering breath to compose himself, Sokka directed the quill to the valve, and with an unstable hand circled a small lever. "It…it's too big. It's g…going to make controlling the power harder." He dropped the writing instrument as if it stung, and pulled his hands close to him, staring down at his knees.

_What have I done…?_

The small desk and scroll were collected by a guard and taken from the room.

Large hands branded his shoulders, leaden weights that made Sokka sag. The Fire Lord made a satisfied sound, almost a chuckle before saying, "Nothing but animals, your people. I look at you, and see a little beast that's lived his whole life on a barren piece of ice. My father, Fire Lord Azulon wanted every last one of you gone, for he found little use for the Water Tribe and their lands. No resources to speak of, the wilderness too harsh to colonize." His hands rose to his neck, encasing it completely as if it were a collar. "Barbarians, not even able to fully develop a civilization. Separated in the wasteland of the South Pole, cloistered in little pocket tribes. Undeveloped. So wild that not even slavery could tame you."

"Then why keep me?" Sokka managed to strangle out, the powerful man's touch fraying at him. "Why not just kill me or lock me away in a prison?"

Why the room, the isolation? Why the horrible touch?

"The Water Tribe Chief Hakoda has made a nuisance of himself one too many times," the Fire Lord answered. Sokka forgot to breathe for a moment, then slowly…carefully…turned within the hands incasing his neck, and looked straight up into the man's face. "He needs to be reminded who is his lord and master. His daughter's presence in the capitol would have served as a suitable message. I planned to be acquainted with her here in this room. I planned to send her father the soiled sheets."

"But she's dead…" the lie came out of a hallow sound deep in his gut. "You can't touch her." _I will never let you touch her. _Never here; in the room, on the bed. It was all to ruin Katara for the purpose of destroying their father.

"No, not her," agreed Fire Lord Ozai. "Zhao was to exterminate every person in the village if he could not present me with a suitable hostage, but instead he found you. Initially I would have had your body burned and then left at the shores of the Earth Kingdom for the Southern Water Tribe fleet and their allies to find."

_Initially…_ "Not now?"

The ruler laughed, and the hands moved up, and fingers wove through his drying hair a he leaned closer. Sokka forced himself still under the touch, his mind numb.

"No, that fate is not for you. You are clever. Too clever for a beast. Outside you would grow to become a thorn, just like your sire, but here…" The man made a sound in his throat, then leaned closer into an embrace. Sokka could feel smooth long chin hairs against the opening of the robe on his shoulder, arms warping around his torso and hands on the tie around his waist.

And Sokka knew, finally _knew_ what the Fire Lord intended for him. Worse than killing him, Ozai would defile him. He knew a bit of these things, having heard whispered words about one tribesman whose body had been left behind after a vicious raid. Touch could become a weapon when used for the purpose of violence and domination. Katara was not here to taint, so instead he would sully Sokka with his perversion.

His arms shot out, slammed his palms against the large mass of the ruler's chest, just enough force to put a little space between them. "Get your hands _off_ me!" He snarled, rage rising up to replace the blinding fear. So, this was way the Fire Nation would play him.

Arms still around the boy, the Fire Lord pushed forward, and yelling furiously Sokka fell backwards so that his back was pressed into the red sheets of the bed. Sokka swung his arm, intending for his fist to connect to the royal face looming above him. Ozai intercepted the strike with ease, his hand a manacle that completely encased his thin wrist and forced it down. The lord moved forward, pressing iron hot thighs between Sokka's thrashing legs so that the boy could not even curl his legs to kick at him. With all his violent motions, Sokka's robe had ridden up, exposing him, and the boy futilely used his only free hand to try to cover himself.

The Fire Lord's unbound hair fell about him, tickling Sokka's shoulders. Their eyes met; furious blue with smoldering gold. The boy's chest heaved, when his tormentor sank closer. Their noses could practically touch, and Ozai's chin beard draped over Sokka's neck like a dead fish. The Fire Lord's free hand played with the knot that held the boy's useless robe together, pondering out loud, "Even with all the food that you have been fed, your body is as thin as fire lizards." The hand delved in, fingers caressing his chest, then down to his underbelly making Sokka cringe and kick his legs at the lord's sides. "There is muscle, but young, and untrained," the man continued, pulling the boy's captured arm farther away from him. "If you were a bender I dare say you would have a bit more mass to you. I never knew there existed a boy scrawnier than my son." He smiled then, as if amused by an unsaid joke. "But where you fall short in body, you very much make it up with your mind, eh? A mind that will not go to waste."

Sokka managed to clench his teeth shut when finally the lord tired of his voice and pressed down into his lips. He felt lips on his, and the slimy horrible muscle that was the Fire Lord's tongue pushing in between his lips for entrance. His free hand drove upward, latching onto the man's temple and yanking upward by the fine hairs on the sides.

The hand in his robe struck down, latching on for the second time onto his manhood. Sokka let out a chocked gasp, and found his mouth invaded. The hand holding his arm down moved to his jaw, grasping it when the boy tensed his muscles to bite down, fingers digging painfully into the joints so that he could not purge the unwanted appendage from his mouth.

Sokka's hand were useless to him, unable to hit hard enough to push the other away, too weak to even yank the hand from his groin, he couldn't budge the face that pressed into him. He was completely helpless, even unchained he was prey hanging in the mouth of the one that would devour him, waiting for its maw to come down and crush him.

But this hunter wanted to play, and was not out to eat him yet. Sokka would have to endure this torture, for however long it lasted.

_Endure._ It was funny how he thought this as he felt the Fire Lord's manhood burning into his inner thigh, the man's knees pushing his shaking legs apart to lay the fiery rod in area between. Humiliation and shame - that was the goal. Sokka knew this, understood it. It was nothing more than another way to break him. Sokka could bear it, for it was his choice.

Fingers sank from his groin down further, pushed for entrance somewhere far more intimate. But he could not even cry out in outrage, even when the fingers sank in, stretching, tearing, branding him. Bile rose, and Sokka was sure he would heave into the Fire Lord's face, when the man pulled out of his mouth, moving to latch his teeth onto a bare should. The robe was pulled down so that it knotted at his arms, constricting the boy's thrashing.

When the fingers withdrew, Sokka almost sighed in relief, but then the large hot hands were grasping his thighs with bruising strength, pulling them farther apart. A large, scotching object pressed his entrance, its tip wet with lava. He was pulled closer, so that his hips were no longer one the bed, his arms caught to the sides by the robe, his legs held spread open for assault.

Sokka shut his eyes to this sight of himself, teeth biting into his bottom lip, nails digging into his palms.

_Endure_, he chanted to himself._ You can take whatever he gives you._

When the Fire Lord finally plunged into him, splitting him in two with his strength and fire, Sokka could only think of one thing:

_Better me than Katara._

And then he could do nothing but scream.

**~~~ Honor and Pride ~~~**

It was hours before Fire Lord Ozai tired and left him. He lay on his stomach on the bed, nude and covered in the other's man's filthy seed. He made no move at all when servants came into the room, wheeling in his washing tub. Steam rose up from the water, and Sokka stared at it, tracing the curls and wisps of dancing tendrils. There were four servants, two holding towels, all with their white masks in place. They waited, standing beside the tub, fiends observing the art left by their master.

He was almost tempted to do nothing, just lay for hours in hope that they would leave. But it was wishful thinking, and here in this prison with its four walls that witnessed what had transpired on the bed, there was no room for wishes and dreams. Wishing that the servants would leave would be the same as wishing that he hadn't been violated by the Fire Lord himself. Wishing that it would not happen again…there was no hope for that either.

"_Open your eyes. Look up at your master and witness all that I bequeath to you."_

Almost, Sokka could not move. Pushing up onto his elbows sent agony down his spine and into the very tips of his toes. The Fire Lord meant to hurt him. Had taken his sadistic time to observe as the body bled from being torn. Had taken pleasure as Sokka wept when flipping him over to the side after the first bout, and then raping him for a second, then third time.

Hissing in rage, Sokka moved his soiled legs and sat up. The servants still stood, ghouls perched and waiting.

It was better this way. He would not tolerate it if they attempted to touch him.

Moving sent knives shooting through him, tearing at his insides, but the boy soldiered forward and inched past the drapes. When his bare feet touched the cool marble floor he shivered at the chill, it felt like a balm to the suffering in his body. Seed and blood streaked down Sokka's legs when he stood, and the boy swallowed against the disgrace. With as much dignity as he could muster, he limped towards the tub, shoulders back, face forward.

This was nothing. Nothing at all.

He washed himself, using one of the towels to scrub the filth from him. He scrubbed at every mark he could reach, feeling wet saliva painted into his skin, feeling teeth embedded into his flesh. Sokka would have washed himself forever, till the poison that covered his skin and stained his core was clean. But soon the water color changed to reddish brown and then he could no longer stand sitting the waste.

His clothes were given to him, a tunic and short pants that fell just below his knees. As he pulled his hair up and tied it off with some available string, Sokka noticed a small little four legged table with books on them.

Sokka stood motionless, staring at the desk as the servants changed the sheets to the bed. He made no move to approach it until they had left, locking the door and returning him to his solitude. Everything was as it was before, the bed with its hideous sheets, the pillows with their phoenixes, the shear shades hanging down as if to hide what it cloistered inside. The walls were still tall and suffocating, and the tapestry still hung.

Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.

He limped to the desk, noting the carvings of a phoenix on each leg, gold etched into the four boarders of its face. There were three books stacked up top each other. "_Introduction to Mechanics and Engineering" _was the title of the one on top.

Mechanics and engineering. He reached for it, and froze as he took in his wrist. It was swollen, already bruising from being held in a crushing grip, and at the forearm, just below the elbow was a bite mark that was already purpling. Sokka had screamed when the Fire Lord bit him there.

With an enraged yell, Sokka pushed at the desk, toppling it over with its contents. The books sprawled open onto the floor, their pages bent. They mocked him still, so he kicked at them, sending them spiraling across the floor. He reached down and picked up the _Introduction to Mechanics and Engineering_ and sent it flying into the tapestry. It struck the center of the black flame then fell like a broken bird to the floor.

Gasping, he felt like he could barely breathe, as if the Fire Lord still pressed down onto him, _into_ him. Sokka slammed his back against a corner, the bed to his side, the tapestry before him. He let himself sink to the floor, his knees bent in front of him, his hands pressing down into his stomach. If he touched the area lower he knew he would reach inflamed flesh, tender to the touch.

It _hurt. _Deep, so deep that Sokka did not know such pain could exist.

A sob escaped his lips. First small little sounds that grew to the point that Sokka covered his mouth to silence his despair. He would not give any of them the satisfaction of hearing him weep, not even the ones that stood outside the door. So he smothered his cries, covered his tears, buried his hurt.

_Endure_.

The books were collected and the table righted. He placed the volumes carefully on its surface and flattened the bent pages. He would look them over later. Sokka pried the sheet from the mattress, and gathered two pillows, settling himself gingerly down. He needed to rest and recuperate.

If Fire Lord Ozai wanted to take advantage of his mind, Sokka would accommodate that. He needed to keep himself sharp and open for any opportunity. Even if it meant suffering the man's sadistic touch time and again. Keep him occupied, satiated, fat in his assumption that he had broken a beast from the Water Tribe. Let more books come to him, Sokka would read them. And if another diagram was presented to him, Sokka would solve whatever is needed.

The lord of the Fire Nation was a fool, because, Sokka was clever, and crafty, and he would never, ever give up.

He would endure for however long it took to escape from this hell. It was nothing after all.

* * *

**A/N: **Eee! This was horrible to write. I tried to keep Sokka as in-character as possible, however he is in a situation that would put ANYONE out of character.

Next chapter: ZUKO!


End file.
